you and the police, because neither of you show any signs of knowing what in hell it’s all about.” He rose and turned his head over his shoulder to address the stenographer: “Getting this all right, son? Or am I going too fast for you?”
The stenographer looked at him with startled eyes and replied: “No, sir, I’m getting it all right.”
“Good work,” Spade said and turned to Bryan again. “Now if you want to go to the Board and tell them I’m obstructing justice and ask them to revoke my license, hop to it. You’ve tried it before and it didn’t get you anything but a good laugh all around.” He picked up his hat.
Bryan began: “But look here—”
Spade said: “And I don’t want any more of these informal talks. I’ve got nothing to tell you or the police and I’m goddamned tired of being called things by every crackpot on the city payroll. If you want to see me, pinch me or subpoena me or something and I’ll come down with my lawyer.” He put his hat on his head, said, “See you at the inquest, maybe,” and stalked out.